by Ken Goddard
"Okay, guys, you asked for it," Marie Pascalaura said agreeably as she checked her watch. "You are hereby advised that serious drugs will not be available until six o'clock this evening. Any complaints, bitches, moaning, groaning, or whining will be referred to Special Agent Dwight Stoner for arbitration."
"Shit, if it's up to me, they ain't gonna get nothin', period," Stoner growled. "Couple of candy asses, that's all they are. Wanna work in this outfit, they gotta learn to play with pain."
"And on that cheerful note, I think I'm going to go to work," Marie Pascalaura smiled, walking back out the door with a deliberate roll of her muscular hips that left the agent team whistling and cheering in her wake.
"God, I love the medical profession," Henry Lightstone sighed.
"Yeah, well as long as you and me are roommates, and you ain't gonna share," Paxton muttered, "you can just forget about-"
There was a knock at the door, and a familiar face looked in.
"Hey, Counselor!" Henry Lightstone exclaimed, raising his beer bottle in salute. "Come on in."
"Am I interrupting anything?" Deputy U.S. Attorney Jameson Wheeler asked cautiously.
"Nah, just some general bullshit." Lightstone grinned. "Come on in and have a beer."
"Don't mind if I do," the tall and lanky government lawyer said as he entered, shut the door, and then walked over and handed McNulty a note. "But first, the mail run. Office wants you to call in right away. Sounds like they think it's important," he advised.
McNulty looked at the number, nodded, and then quickly disappeared out the door as Wheeler accepted a beer from Stoner and took McNulty's chair.
"So how's Mr. Henry Allen Lightner's highly reputable 'family attorney' doing these days?" Carl Scoby inquired after Wheeler had taken his first grateful sip of the cold brew.
"Well, to tell you the truth, pretty damned good," the Deputy U.S. Attorney nodded. "Fact is, I think I've just received the first official bribe of my entire legal career."
"No kidding?" Carl Scoby laughed. "They make it worthwhile?"
Jameson Wheeler pulled a folded check out of his breast pocket and handed it over to Scoby. "I don't know, maybe I'm not reading it right. What do you think?"
"Holy shit!" Scoby whispered and then passed the check around until it got to Lightstone, who glanced at it briefly, blinked, looked again, and then stared up at Wheeler.
"Somebody's offering you two hundred and fifty thousand dollars?" he said, blinking in astonishment. "What the hell for?"
"Basically, to be your attorney, more or less."
"Oh, yeah?" Lightstone laughed. "Well, if you don't mind my asking, Counselor, just what in hell are you planning on doing for me that's going to be worth a quarter-of-a- million-dollar fee?"
"Looks like you ain't gonna need Marie no more," Larry Paxton guessed. "Can I have her?"
"Of course you have to understand," Jameson Wheeler said, "that this is what we in the legal profession would call a 'retainer.' Just a little pocket change to keep a legal-beagle like myself hanging around on stand-by and twiddling his thumbs for the next few weeks."
"That mean you wouldn't get to keep the money unless you actually did the work?" Mike Takahara asked.
"Oh, good Lord, no," Wheeler laughed, shaking his head in mock dismay. "I'm always amazed that you law- enforcement types have so little understanding of our legal system. What kind of professionals do you think we are?"
"Gimme another beer before I say something I might regret later on," Paxton mumbled to Stoner.
"As a member in good standing of the District of Columbia and the Idaho State bars," Jameson Wheeler went on, still smiling, because he and Paxton had known and worked with each other for the past sixteen years, "I would certainly be allowed to keep my retainer whether I worked my butt off on behalf of my client or did nothing much at all. In fact, as I understand the situation, in the unlikely event that I might actually do something halfway significant in this particular case-say, for example, pass gas at an appropriate moment when the opening counsel is trying to make a point to the jury-I can expect to receive another check of similar if not greater value."
"I take it all back, Henry," Paxton said comtemplatively as he sipped at the cold beer. "You better stick with Marie. At least she ain't gonna run off with your wallet afterward."
"Which brings us to the basic question," Lightstone said. "Who the hell's offering to pay the freight on this deal?"
"Alex Chareaux, if you care to believe that," Wheeler shrugged.
"What?" Lightstone blinked in disbelief
"Hey," Jameson Wheeler smiled as he brought his thin shoulders up in an exaggerated shrug, "all I know is that you and Roberto Jacall are being offered the use of one of the top legal firms in Washington, D.C., at no cost to yourselves, and I'm being offered a quarter of a million dollars to step aside and keep my mouth shut. And if that makes any sense to any of you here-" he raised his beer bottle in salute, "-then you're way ahead of me on beer."
"Sure as hell don't make any sense to me," Stoner said.
"Quite frankly," Wheeler confessed, "it's almost enough to make me wonder what I've been doing with my career all these years."
"Well, I should fucking well hope so," Paxton muttered.
"Uh, I'm not sure I'm following all this," Lightstone said, his eyebrows furrowed in confusion beneath the tape and bandages. "You mean that these people, whoever they are, don't even want you to be my attorney of record?"
"Absolutely not. Co-counsel at best, and even that in name only," Wheeler said emphatically. "As I understand it, there would be twelve trial attorneys from the firm, who would actually handle the case."
"Twelve fucking attorneys, for me?"
"For you and Alex, Butch and Sonny and Jacall," the Deputy U.S. Attorney nodded. "Package deal. I understand it works out so much easier that way."
"And Alex Chareaux is offering to pay the bill?" Lightstone laughed. "Come on, Jameson, you're trying to tell us that Alex Chareaux and his brothers have been making money like this from taking people out on illegal guiding trips?"
"Not unless they've been dealing cocaine in kilo lots on the side," Carl Scoby commented.
"That's exactly right, and, no, I'm not trying to tell you that," Jameson Wheeler said. "But what I am telling you, my friends, is that the firm of Little, Warren, Nobles and Kole does not come cheap. If for no other reason than the fact that they have a high overhead. The fact is, the senior partners can count on raking in a seven-figure income, clear, and a straight partnership is supposed to be good for at least a mid six. So you add up the cost of twelve criminal lawyers of that caliber over a period of several weeks, if not months, and figure out where that puts you."
"Never-never land," Lightstone grunted.
"And that doesn't even begin to count the support troops," Wheeler added. "Just as an example, I don't know what they pay Walter Crane, their chief investigator, but it has to be a bunch because I'd say he's probably more aggressive than the five of you put together."
"Sounds like a real nice guy," Stoner commented.
"To give you an idea of how nice a guy he is," Jameson Wheeler smiled, "I can tell you that if Walter Crane focused his team of investigators on Henry's cover, which I happen to know is pretty decent because I helped build it, I don't think it would take more than two days-maybe a week at the outside-to figure out two things: one, that Mr. Henry Allen Lightner does not exist; and two, that yours truly has been working as a poor but honest government lawyer in Denver for the past twenty years."
"Two days?" Scoby blinked.
"At best," the Deputy U.S. Attorney said. "I'm telling you, the man is good."
"So what does that do for our case?" Scoby asked.
"A very good question," Jameson Wheeler nodded, impressed by the realization that all five of McNulty's agents, who had been about half drunk and cheerfully celebrating when he'd walked in, were now stone-cold sober and listening carefully.
"First of all, it certain
ly forces us to move quickly in terms of Henry's cover if Paul wants to keep him working in the area. Fortunately," the Deputy U.S. Attorney added, "we don't have to expose Henry as an agent to prosecute the Chareauxs because, as much as I hate to admit it, managing to get himself shot like that and then making that nine-one- one call were strokes of pure genius."
"His fellow agents would prefer to think of it as dumbshit blind luck, but don't mind us," Larry Paxton smiled.
"Understandably," Wheeler chuckled. "Anyway, we obviously can't let Henry Allen Lightner go on trial, nor can I possibly put myself in a position to establish any sort of co-counsel relationship with the Little, Warren, Nobles and Kole team. As it is, I think we are dangling on the very precarious edge of confidentiality with respect to the client- attorney relationship. Judge Wu is pretty open-minded for a circuit-court judge, and he wasn't the least bit pleased when Paul told him about the probes on your team, but I can't see him allowing us to carry out this little game much further."
"So how do you figure it?" Scoby asked.
"Henry Allen Lightner completely disassociates himself from the Chareauxs and their attorneys and then offers to plead guilty to knowingly taking part in an illegal hunt, because there isn't any evidence to tie him into any other part of the case," Jameson Wheeler said offhandedly. "The U.S. Attorney and I agree to probation, with no requirement to assist the prosecution, and Henry Lightner simply disappears. Another satisfied customer of our criminal justice system."
"You think it'll work?"
"I don't see why-"
At that moment, Paul McNulty shoved the door open and entered the room, the furious expression on his face causing even Stoner to back away.
"They want to talk with you," McNulty growled at Wheeler.
"Me?"
"Yeah, you," McNulty nodded. "Right now."
McNulty waited until the puzzled Deputy U.S. Attorney had left the room, then looked over at his team.
"They want to drop the case," he said.
"What?" five agents yelled in unison, causing Paxton to wince in pain and Lightstone to grab at his head as McNulty held up his hand for silence.
"Who's 'they'?" Carl Scoby demanded.
"The Department of Interior, for one."
"Any particular reason?"
"Pretty much the classic reasons," McNulty shrugged. "Failure to follow proper procedures. Concern that Special Ops is running amok. Perception that severely limited resources have been devoted to a relatively minor case. Clear need for better oversight. It goes on, but I think you get the drift."
"You mean that somebody in the Department of Interior actually cares about the Chareaux brothers?" Lightstone asked.
"Apparently," McNulty nodded.
"Who do those bastards know?" Larry Paxton muttered.
"What about those three characters you guys took out on the hunt?" Mike Takahara suggested. "Any way they might be a reason?"
"I can't see how or why," Henry Lightstone shrugged. "They aren't even charged with anything. Why the hell would they care?"
"I don't know," Takahara admitted, "but somebody cares."
"That's right," McNulty added, tight-jawed. "Somebody cares a lot. The Department now thinks that two Special Ops teams may be one too many. So it's going to dismantle one team. Guess which one."
"Bravo team," Carl Scoby whispered.
"Can they do that?" Henry Lightstone asked.
"Oh, yeah, they sure as hell can," McNulty nodded. "It's called 'priority management.'"
"Can we fight it?" Lightstone asked.
"Sure we can," McNulty told him. "We can pull all of our stats together, document our cases, write it all up in one big, summary report. And then demand a hearing."
"So when do we start?" Lightstone demanded.
"Right after we get reassigned to the New York office," McNulty replied evenly.
"Oh, God, no," Carl Scoby and Larry Paxton whispered in unison.
"Either that," McNulty shrugged, "or we can go along with the program…"
"Yeah?" Lightstone said suspiciously.
"… and receive immediate and permanent transfers to the duty stations of our choice."
"What?"
"For example," McNulty went on, ignoring Lightstone's exclamation, "they've offered me the Region Seven SAC job in Anchorage, where Martha and I had hoped to retire in a couple of years. Carl would get the training coordinator's position that just opened up at Marana. Larry drops into a newly created agent-pilot slot in Miami. Dwight would get-"
"Goddamnit, we're being split up and bought off!" Lightstone exploded just as Jameson Wheeler came back into the room, closed the door, and looked at McNulty with a grim expression.
"What'd they offer you?" McNulty asked.
"Chief of the Lands and Natural Resources Division if I decide to be cooperative," the Deputy U.S. Attorney replied evenly.
"And if you don't?"
"Newark office, working toxic-waste dump sites."
Larry Paxton muttered something unintelligible.
"See, the thing is, Henry," Carl Scoby said in a voice tightened with barely controlled rage, "what we're being offered is the carrot or the stick. New York and Newark are the sticks. And they are big mothers, let me tell you."
"So fuck 'em," Lightstone said. "How bad can New York be?"
"Henry," Deputy U.S. Attorney Jameson Wheeler said softly, "before you fellows take a vote on this, which I have no doubt you will, why don't you let me tell you a few things about the New York office?"
Chapter Twenty-Six
Friday June 7th
The crew of the Bell Ranger dropped Dr. Reston Wolfe off at the Whitehorse Cabin heliport and prepared to wait on stand-by. The executive director of ICER hunched way down for several awkward steps until he was clear of the sweeping rotor blades and well beyond the more distant yellow-painted warning stripes. He then hurried on past the stone-faced ground controller with a briefcase clutched tightly in his small, bureaucratic fist.
Three minutes later, Wolfe walked through the private entrance to Lisa Abercombie's underground office, closed the door, and set his briefcase down on her desk. Abercombie ignored him as she continued to read through a stack of faxed press clippings.
Undaunted, Wolfe opened the briefcase, removed a handful of thick file folders, and tossed them onto the desk top.
"It's a done deal," he said proudly.
"Meaning?" Lisa Abercombie asked as she finally looked up.
"Bravo Team no longer exists," Wolfe said. "At five o'clock Eastern Standard Time, which was-" he glanced down at his watch "-exactly one hour and twelve minutes ago, the team was officially disbanded and all assigned special agents were officially transferred to new duty stations of their choice."
"You're certain of that?"
"It's all right there in the files." Wolfe gestured to the stack of personnel folders. "Six voluntary requests for transfer with accompanying approvals and personnel actions, all signed, sealed, and delivered."
"Wonderful," Abercombie nodded.
"And, coincidentally," Wolfe went on, "you might be happy to learn that the case against the Chareaux brothers has been dropped."
"Oh, really? On what basis?"
"Failure to follow official policies and procedures. Covert operations require law-enforcement agents of the Fish and Wildlife Service to obtain prior written approval before conducting undercover investigations against individuals with sensitive backgrounds."
"You identified the Chareaux brothers as having sensitive backgrounds? Are you out of your goddamned mind?" Lisa Abercombie demanded, her eyes suddenly widening with fear.
"What Paul McNulty and his covert team simply didn't realize when they began their little probe," Wolfe went on confidently, "was that the Chareaux brothers have been working as confidential informants for an extremely sensitive government operation, the details of which cannot be revealed at this time without putting other agents and informants at risk."
"You have that
documented?" Abercombie asked uneasily.
Wolfe nodded.
"So what did you threaten them with?" Abercombie asked.
"Immediate transfers to New York, with occasional forays into Newark."
"You really think that's going to be enough of a threat to keep them quiet?"
"As I understand it," Wolfe smiled, "a typical New York import-export case can take several years to resolve, rummaging through filthy warehouses, sifting through hundreds of thousands of records. And, of course, it's virtually impossible to find a decent place to live anywhere near the office on a special agent's salary."
Lisa Abercombie was quiet for a long moment.
"Nice," she finally said. "In fact, very nice." She nodded in grudging approval.
"I thought you'd like it," Wolfe smiled, clearly pleased with his clever bureaucratic maneuvers.
"But we have another problem that you may not know about yet," Abercombie said. "Have you seen the papers?"
"Not today. Why?"
"Read these," she said as she tossed the faxed news clippings across the desk.
Wolfe scanned the clippings, then went back and read the first two articles more thoroughly.
"They did it," he whispered.
"They certainly did," Lisa Abercombie concurred. "And what's more, they did it perfectly. I don't think we could have asked the team for a better demonstration."
"How did you manage to set it up?" Wolfe asked.
"That's the beauty of it," Abercombie smiled, her dark eyes flashing with unconcealed amusement. "The stupid bastards set it up themselves. Five known militant activists from three of the top environmental groups deciding to get together for an informal meeting at a remote location on Long Island. It was perfect."
"Any idea why they called the meeting?"
"Probably to discuss strategies, or maybe just to exchange tofu recipes," Abercombie shrugged. "It doesn't matter now, though. One of them was well known for making violent threats against specific industrial targets. Apparently he liked to spout off to the press about how the environmentalists ought to declare war on the industrial world. I mean, what more could we ask for?"
